


Admission

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unravelling the presumptions and arrogance that have brought him to this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admission

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

He wakes, struggling into consciousness, aware of his surroundings but incapable of matching them to any prior framework. He’s in bed, his bed he supposes from the feel of the mattress. Lying on his side, hand resting on a pillow that lies at an angle in front of his face. If this is his bed then the pillows have been moved or more have been added. The pillow, at a right angle to the others, in front of his face, is a new addition. Probably positioned in that manner to stop him rolling out of bed. He can’t imagine rolling out of bed, not normally at any rate. There’s warmth at his back, the full press of another human body rather than more pillows blocking him in. He eases his heels backwards to test for his companion’s height. They’re shorter than he is. The arm that’s draped across him is reasonably muscular.

“John?”  
“It’s okay, baby.” John slurs, sounding mostly asleep.

Sherlock considers that. He’s fine, John’s evidently fine and they’re lying together in his bed. There has to be some reason for it. Neither of them are likely to have simply hopped into bed together. The previous night is nothing but incoherent fragments unfortunately.

“John?”  
“Mmm?”  
“John, are you naked?”

John laughs. It turns into a yawn and then his breathing evens out again. Not that Sherlock hasn’t noticed: it’s just that for once he feels the need to have his observation confirmed. John _is_ naked, lying behind him, with an arm draped over his waist. It’s a situation that conventional wisdom would lend itself to easily but neither of them have ever been particularly conventional. Stretching an arm over the packed in pillows takes far more effort than he’s certain it ought to but after a brief struggle he manages to reach his phone on the bedside table. It’s difficult to make himself tap out the letters but it needs to be done.

“What would you do if I slept with my flatmate? SH”

He bites his lip, waiting for a reply. Sending that text is a necessary evil, much like Mycroft himself.

“Day off. Go away. GL”

Which is an odd response, not least of all because he sent that text to Mycroft, _not_ Lestrade.

“Do you have to sleep with all my... people? SH”

The reason for the odd reply is as obvious: Lestrade has just added himself to the list of Mycroft’s conquests. Mycroft after all does seem to have inherited the lion’s share of interest in human sexuality.

“Only some of them. Is John offering? MH”

Sherlock smiles in spite of himself. There is always a certain droll humour in Mycroft’s communication when he’s relaxed. Today then is evidently one of those rare days when the causes and ends of the greatest politic actions and motions of state can manage themselves, without Mycroft’s supervision. Perhaps the thought itself is indicative of a temporary truce, Sherlock supposes. It’s not often that he quotes political theory texts and usually not so completely after all. Not that he recalls most of them verbatim.

It’s a throwback to those many years ago when he’d fancied himself a great social theorist, capable of correcting the mistakes of humanity. He hadn’t quite had designs on a seat in the Commons or a Pitt-style rise to power, culminating in becoming Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four, but it hadn’t been far off. He’d pictured himself as a much sought after political advisor, the sort of academic who had politicians clamouring at the door to ask him what ought to be done. He wouldn’t have been in the limelight but rather a power absolutely hidden from the public eye. _Fear the kingmaker not the king_. The public wouldn’t even know of his existence but his name would be a byword for the precise and necessary control that must be exerted over the state.

To that end he’d actually applied himself in school, reasonably enough. He’d coasted through on his wits when it came to his GCSEs and ranked joint second in the history of the school. He’d even studied when it had come to his A-Levels, to get the required grades to read the ghastly hybrid of PPS at Churchill. Churchill itself had been ghastly to look at as well but at least it hadn’t been Peterhouse. _Mycroft_ had of course read Economics there because it was the oldest of the colleges with its limit of only eighty admissions a year. At the time Sherlock had even wondered if Mycroft had opted for Peterhouse just because you couldn’t do the Politics, Psychology  & Sociology tripos there, which would prevent Sherlock following, and ruining Mycroft’s reputation at said college. Regardless, Sherlock himself had chosen Churchill for precisely the wrong reasons. It was one of the newest colleges, had a reputation for admitting students who wouldn’t have been let within the boundaries of any college only decades ago and was mostly full of engineers.

Of course it had gone badly in the end. For some godforsaken reason he’d decided that he was above studying like everybody else and had spent huge amounts of time swanning about being idle and insolent. He’d also decided that he was above wearing his own college scarf and had somehow acquired a St Ed’s one which he’d worn instead, declaring the colour scheme to be far more tasteful. Thus, he’d borne the humiliation of failing his first year exams, the exams that nobody failed other than the terminal alcoholics, who didn’t even turn up to sit the papers. He’d been furious of course but being sent down hadn’t been the permanent punishment it once was, so there had been an opportunity for him to go back. All he’d needed to do was spend a week or so ‘considering the matter’ as the carefully worded official letter had put it, and apply to do resits over the summer. If he passed those then everything would have fallen back into its preordained place.

Everything should have fallen back into place, would have most likely, if not for the misfortune of his own arrogance and the very pedestrian fact that his elder brother was in fact very kind. Mycroft had told him not to worry, had told him that if he didn’t want to bother himself with Cambridge then that didn’t matter, because, if Sherlock wanted, Mycroft could secure him a Civil Service position anyway. That had done it in the end and in his blinding fury and arrogance he’d sent back a clipped letter declining the college’s generous offer and probably putting himself into the category of people who would be thrown off Cantab property on sight for the foreseeable future. He’d thrown it all away for the sake of his own wounded pride.

“Because I’m a fool.” Sherlock murmurs.

He is of course the world’s only consulting detective but that happened by accident as well. He’d needed an outlet for his intellect, a means to laud his greatness over humanity without having to actually interact with humanity. Somehow though, it had worked. He _is_ very good at what he does, if a bit directionless about it. It gives him the time to run his experiments and sink back into the pettiness of honest to goodness science. No more grand gestures of state for him, just the tangible, the believable, the easily reproduced precision of experiments in a lab. The world’s only consulting detective _is_ brilliant of course, he _is_ an absolute genius: he’s also a failed politician.

The buzz of his phone jolts him out of his depressive thoughts, veers him away from the chain of reasoning that will have him considering anti-depressants again. He could take them of course but he’s not entirely sure if he actually needs them.

“How, pray tell, is this failure? MH”

Lying on his side, phone held in front of his face, he’s about to tap out an instinctive reply but then hesitates. Behind him, John snuggles closer, burying his nose in Sherlock’s hair. The bed is warm and comfortable. He feels relaxed and well-rested. His brother does appear to have bedded _his_ detective inspector, granted, but that’s not too much of an issue. There’s the vague scent of freshly baked bread floating up from downstairs, and the light that filters through the curtains promises it to be a bright, if slightly brisk, day.

“I never did get a degree. SH”

It’s a neutral statement of fact rather than a plaintive cry for help. Yet still, it’s indicative of things. Of the lie that’s told to little children: that they’re shunned because of their intelligence and not because of their lack of social skills. Nobody is born with the sort of innate gregarious nature that makes showmen: it’s a skill that has to be learned, informally, by osmosis. It’s not the sort of thing that’s formally codified and so, for some reason, there’s a great pretence at it not being learnt at all. An intelligent child, ostracised for their difference, isn’t taught to play well with others but rather taught to wear their ostracism as a badge of merit. As if being cast out is a measure of intellect. One doesn’t need to be a genius to fail to fit in, but plenty of misfits like to think that they’re geniuses anyway. Intellect and social ability are not mutually exclusive, and it’s taken him far too long to realise that.

“PPS is a crock and you know it. MH”

Sherlock laughs. Trust Mycroft to attempt to soothe over old wounds in his own droll fashion. Somehow that thought alone brings last night flooding back. John had gone out, presumably with Sarah, leaving Sherlock alone with nothing to occupy his time. It had seemed like a good idea to sit down, with John’s laptop, and go through his browsing history. John had spent some time watching youtube clips recently, old episodes of “Have I Got News For You”, and Sherlock had found himself laughing along with the studio audience. Then he’d decided that what was needed to aid the experience was alcohol and there had been a bottle of Tesco’s mulled wine, left over from Christmas, in the kitchen. He’d got about half way through the bottle, on an empty stomach, when he’d reached a clip of Boris Johnson deflecting an interview with Jeremy Paxman, through the use of classics and pure showmanship, and then suddenly it hadn’t been entertaining at all anymore. Suddenly, he’d been a drunk, miserable, washed up failure, drinking by himself on a Friday night. Comparisons with “Withnail & I” had drifted through his mind, at which point everything else had become a blur. He vaguely recalls trying to tell John something, because somehow John had been there, or perhaps it had simply been something he’d felt the need to tell anyone who would listen. To his credit he hadn’t broken down into drunken sobs but he’d been close enough to it, gasping for air and wondering if he was going to throw up. Perhaps he’d even made a confession of sorts while he’d clung to John and mumbled nonsense in his ear.

Whatever has happened, it seems to have ended with him in bed feeling sober and alert. He still doesn’t have much of a clue as to why John is naked, but then so is he. Presumably, in the midst of a drunken fit of self-doubt and recrimination he’d been feverish to the touch, which had necessitated a lack of clothing, and pillows and a spare body packed in around him to stop him rolling out of bed. It’s a flimsy suggestion but entirely plausible so there’s no need to probe the matter further, and perhaps it might even explain John’s use of an endearment towards him.

There’s a box of Boots’ own brand rehydration treatment sachets on the bedside table, a fifteen milligram nicotine patch that he’s used for at least ten hours already before putting it back in the packet, a glass of water and a jug. The rehydration sachets seem to have worked to replace nutrients that he’s been deficient in for at least a week so he reaches for the nicotine patch and carefully sticks it to a bare shoulder. Nicotine helps him focus after all, and will help return his mind to its normal state of equilibrium. In fact, in a few minutes he’s certain that he’ll feel well enough to simply get out of bed and start solving whatever cases Lestrade will throw at him. Even if Lestrade is otherwise occupied, he could at least go to Bart’s and pay awkward compliments to Molly, who is almost as pretty as she is efficient. He could do plenty of things really, or, he could simply stay in bed.

Rolling over, he rests his head against John’s chest and huffs out a breath in amusement when John’s fingers tangle in his hair. There are so many unanswered questions about their current circumstances but, oddly, he can’t quite find it in himself to care. Mycroft is right: PPS is a crock; real politicians always go in for law or economics. John is probably at least bisexual. Lestrade might be as well, though he’s always struck Sherlock as caring less about the gender binary to the point of probably identifying as pansexual instead. Mrs Hudson knows that he and John aren’t a couple but enjoys teasing John anyway. These things have become an established common knowledge in his head, carefully, subtly rearranging the game plan. His framework is based upon assumptions, upon an established, accepted common knowledge, the burden of which everyone involved operates under. It’s just that somehow, in regards to a few minor details, he’s managed to miss the point. It is always the details after all.

It can wait nevertheless, and when he wakes again, two hours later, it’s to find a final text from Mycroft, telling him yet again something he ought to have realised.

“Things aren’t different. Things are things. MH”

**Author's Note:**

> “The causes and ends of the greatest politic actions and motions of state dazzle the eyes and exceed the capacities of all men, save only those that are hourly versed in managing public affairs.”  
> \- Filmer, R., 1991, p. 4. _Patriarcha and Other Writings_. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press
> 
> Pitt the Younger still holds the record for being the youngest British Prime Minister appointed to office. The closest contender is Robert Jenkinson, who became PM at the age of 42.
> 
> Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick earned the epithet ‘Kingmaker’ for deposing two Kings of England.
> 
> Churchill’s colours are black, pink and brown. St Edmund’s are royal blue, white and light blue. St Edmund’s only admits mature students and post grads.
> 
> The clip of Boris Johnson deflecting Jeremy Paxman’s questions comes from episode 1 of season 40 of _Have I Got News for You_.
> 
> “Things aren’t different. Things are things.”  
> \- Gibson, W., 1993, p. 316. _Neuromancer_. London: HarperCollins Science Fiction  & Fantasy


End file.
